A Case for Winged Creatures
Angels aren’t real. They can’t be. It just doesn’t make sense. How can a rational human with a working brain believe in invisible celestial creatures who all resemble Michael Landon?
People will make fun of you if you believe in angels.
At least that’s what the young woman thought. There were no such things as angels. Case closed.
The young woman was driving on a desolate backroad. Going home. A college student. Working on her second degree. A hard skeptic. Educated beyond her intelligence.
The year was 1974. Paul Harvey was playing on her radio. She wasn’t a Harvey fan, but it was either him or the pop music of ‘74. Such as “Seasons in the Sun.” Or, God help us, “The Way We Were.”
The young woman was thinking about her mom. Her mom was crazy. Super religious. A big believer in angels. Ceramic angel crap all over the house. Angel coffee-table books. Angel toilet paper holders.
The young woman’s car hit a patch of ice on the highway. She lost control and collided with a tree.
The crunching of metal. The twisting of steel. Her vehicle contorted around the trunk of an oak. Game over.
She was there for a long time, pinned in the driver’s seat. Nothing but the silence of a rural highway to keep her company.
That's when she heard someone saying her name. It was a man’s voice. Soft and kind. He opened her mangled door. He helped her out of the smoldering wreckage.
She doesn’t remember anything about him except for one thing. He was wearing a Beatles T-shirt. John, Paul, George, and Ringo were staring back at her, dressed in full Sgt. Peppers regalia. Ringo always looked so sad. Poor Ringo.
In a few moments, she was lying against the guardrail. The guy was stroking her hair as she fell in and out of consciousness.
“You’re going to be okay,” the guy said.
“Someone needs to call my mom.”
“Try to relax.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“Just breathe.”
“I need my mom.”
The guy smiled. He touched her face. “Who do you think asked me to help you?”
Then he disappeared.
At least that’s the tale the former young woman delivered to me in an email. And it was the same report she gave to the paramedics 50-odd years ago. Who, of course, didn’t believe her.
Either way, now you know the rest of the story.
A touch of Paul Harvey early in the morning is a great way to start the day. I can hear his voice, distinctive and smooth. If that angel sounded like him, tshirt notwithstanding, anybody would trust him with her life. It boggles the mind that we have a tradition that angels have wings and arewhite and flit around like fairies, only bigger. Most reports of angels, they look like anybody. Someone we trust instantly. And my quirky mind believes they are all around us, all the time. Sometimes they put a warning in our minds: don't drive down that street. Don't trust that person. Don't step off that curb yet. If we are mindful, we are guided. It doesn't make sense why angels would care about us; we're not that good, that loving, that helpful, and we harbor dark thoughts. I'm just thankful they do.
People might not believe in angels, but that doesn't mean they don't exist.